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Kenma hated his professors with a passion.
Did they collectively agree to make the deadlines of their assignments all a day after the other? Kenma thought about asking for an extension, then remembered his IT professor’s reaction the last time he asked and shuddered at the memory. Extensions can’t help me now, he thought hopelessly as he stared at the list of assignments he had to complete within the next four days.
Sighing, he gingerly placed the laptop on his bed beside him, his thighs burning from the radiation. He could almost hear his mom’s voice saying “that’s bad for you! No computers on your lap! Off, off, off!” and he was hit with a pang of homesickness. Having moved out almost a year ago for college, Kenma rarely found the opportunity to visit his parents, always finding himself buried in either studies or work. He made a mental note to visit them as soon as he was done with his mountain of homework (he prayed he could finish them by the end of the week).
He found himself trudging to the kitchen, feet dragging on the floor, not even bothered to pick them up because screw that, I have bigger problems. He rummaged through his fridge for anything to eat, coming up empty.
Great, he thought unenthusiastically, as if it couldn’t get any worse, now I have to spend money.
He opened his food delivery app and looked at the limited options he could order from, despite already knowing all of them by heart.
That was another one of the disadvantages of college (besides all the other obvious problems). He had to rent a tiny apartment in the middle of nowhere in order to get somewhat manageable rent. He had to commute 45-minutes every day to college, and the closest amenities were almost 30 minutes away by car (which he also does not own). No restaurants were located nearby either, so he could only eat food from a select few restaurant that bothered to deliver to the area (the exact number was two. Only two restaurants delivered to his apartment and Kenma was sure he’s eaten through their entire menu thrice already).
Today, only one of those two restaurants were open. “Onigiri Miya’s” it read on his screen. At least it was the better and cheaper one of the two, he thought. His mom’s reminder to “be grateful for the small things” echoing in his head.
After a few swipes of his thumb, his order was successfully processed and he lay back down on his bed to wait. He knew he should probably be getting a head start on his assignments but he couldn’t find it himself to care. He also wanted to hurl at the thought of actually sitting at his desk and doing work.
See, he chided his past self, maybe if you hadn’t procrastinated at least half of these assignments, I wouldn’t have had to do so many.
Ignoring the obviously growing pile of work he had to do, he turned on his phone and opened YouTube. His subscriber count was at almost a thousand now and he felt a flash of pride. It wasn’t quite enough to gain a stable income yet, but it was getting somewhere and that was all Kenma could ask for.
Maybe I should do a mukbang when my food arrives, he thought amusedly, laughing at the idea of people being interested in watching him eat a few onigiris and talking.
Contrary to popular belief, Kenma wasn’t a silent person. With strangers, he agrees that he often acts reserved and withdrawn, but that’s only because he really couldn’t care less about interacting with them (although that never stopped him from being overtly conscious of them and their every move). Once he got to know someone and felt like he could (for lack of a better word) vibe with them (which was pretty rare, considering 1) he just doesn’t have the energy to interact with new people and 2) he’s pretty picky with the people he befriends since he couldn’t bother keeping around anyone that annoys him or can’t hold a half-decent conversation), he was easy to talk to. Like with his old friends Kuroo and Fukunaga, conversation used to flow pretty well. That said, he wasn’t the most talkative either. He fit snugly in the middle and he was happy and comfortable with that.
---
After almost an hour of procrastinating and playing video games, Kenma finally realised it was raining outside. It seemed to be pouring, rain beating wildly on his windows, and he had a dull realisation. His onigiri order would probably be cancelled. From past experiences (more times than he could count; just sitting on the floor of his room, stomach growling) the deliverymen always cancelled when it was raining, even if it was just a slight drizzle. Much less this raging storm that seemed to be sweeping up everything in its presence.
He groaned. Of course, it wasn’t really a day in his life if something unlucky didn’t happen, he thought bitterly, all but hopeless at the state his life was in now.
Ding.
Kenma looked up in surprise, his eyes scanning his room for the source of the noise.
Ding. Ding.
He started. It was the doorbell. Who could it possibly be? He rarely got visitors on a normal day, much less when the weather was this bad.
This time there was loud, harsh, repetitive knocking followed by a shout.
“Hello? It’s pouring out here! Can you open up!”
Kenma quickly got to his feet and rushed to the door, feeling vaguely embarrassed at his slow reaction time resulting in the person in front of his door getting soaked.
He felt a small surge of hope. What if it was his food? He was almost giddy with hunger and excitement as he unlocked the door, forgetting to ask who it was or looking through the peephole to check.
If it was a murderer, I probably would’ve died whether or not I opened the door, Kenma figured, it was just a matter of making it more convenient for the killer.
So he swung the door open, bracing himself for the worst.
The man waiting on the other side, foot tapping on the ground impatiently, a takeout bag dangling from his fingers, was decidedly not a murderer. But that didn’t prevent him from making Kenma’s heart stop.
The first coherent thought Kenma could form upon seeing him was fuck, he’s hot. He looked like royalty: water droplets forming a glistening crown on his damp bleached hair, his shoulders thrown back in an air of confidence and the mischievous glint in his eye much like a rogue prince’s in every fantasy show ever.
Then he looked down at himself and flushed red in embarrassment. He was only wearing an oversized hoodie and boxers. Thankfully, his hoodie almost completely covered his crotch and nothing was left out for display. Grateful for the little things, he murmured to himself. His hair was a mess too; his half-bun was lopsided from lying down and stray tangled strands kept getting into his eyes.
“Er, I don’t normally ask customers this but do you think I could come inside? It’s fucken’ pourin’ out here,” the guy gestured to himself being battered by the rain and Kenma was slapped back to reality. Now isn’t the time to think about appearances, he scolded himself, this poor guy needs shelter. So, he let him in.
---
In hindsight, calling him a poor guy was very much true, but not in the ways Kenma expected.
“Yer shower’s so hot! My dorm doesn’t even have any hot water! You live in paradise, mister,” He would shout from the bathroom, making Kenma sigh into his onigiri.
Immediately upon entering, the man made himself at home. He chucked his soggy shoes in the corner of the room and flopped onto the floor before slyly asking if he could use the shower to “freshen up”.
This man was literally barging in on a stranger’s home, with no relationship between the two of them that extended past being a deliveryman and a customer, and had the audacity to demand things from Kenma? He could only nod dumbly, in shock and disbelief from the sheer obnoxiousness and overconfidence the man radiated. He had never met such a self-assured person before in his life.
When he got out of the bath, Kenma jolted at the sight of all his skin, the towel around his hips barely covering much given the man’s tall stature. He had to force himself to look away before the taller man noticed how he was tracing the curves of his hips and the panes of his torso with his eyes, head filling with thoughts he probably shouldn’t be having about a man he just met.
“Ya think ya could lend me some clothes?” He asked, slapping Kenma on the back as if they were close friends asking a casual favour from the other. He shivered at the contact, trying hard to not let it show how the close proximity affected him and made his gut twist.
“You’re probably not my size,” Kenma replies. It was true. The other man was almost a whole head taller than him and much more muscled. Even Kenma’s most oversized clothing would look small on him.
“That’s okay. I can rock anything,” He winked, flexing his arms for show. Kenma reluctantly walked to his closet and picked out an outfit for him, if only to get him to stop walking around looking like a fucking god, because Kenma only had so much self-control. To think of it, he hadn’t gotten any in a long time. He willed himself to think of something else, anything else.
This was impossible, however, when the man came out of the bathroom wearing Kenma’s clothes. The t-shirt he had given him was too short, riding up his abdomen (and Kenma hated to admit it, but he totally pulled off the crop top look) and the sweatpants that were meant to be baggy seemed to follow every muscle of his leg and make them more pronounced. Kenma gulped, hoping the red flush of his cheeks weren’t too visible as he shovelled food down his throat to distract himself from the sight in front of him.
“I think I look fucken’ fantastic. What’d you think, Kodzuken?” The man turned to him, award-winning smirk on his face.
Kenma’s eyes widened in surprise. Kodzuken? He thought almost excitedly, does this guy watch my YouTube channel?
“How do you know my-”
He was quickly interrupted. “I mean, I’m not a creep or anythin’! I know we haven’t introduced ourselves yet. It’s just the name you registered for the app,” he said, vaguely embarrassed, hand coming up to scratch his neck.
Cute, Kenma thought before he could stop himself.
Then he realised what the man had said and couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He had hoped, for some inexplicable reason even he couldn’t understand, that the man had watched his videos.
It couldn’t be, he thought aghast, that I’m trying to impress him?
He dismissed the thought as soon as it came. He was Kozume Kenma. He did not have crushes on people just because they were hot. Well, he did have frequent short-lived infatuations with people that quickly died as soon as they opened their mouths. This will be the same, he promised himself.
“My name isn’t Kodzuken. It’s Kenma. Kodzuken’s the name of my YouTube,” He said.
“Woah, you have a YouTube? Are you like, a big shot or something?” The man’s eyes glinted with surprise.
“Not that big. It’s getting somewhere though,” He replied, taking pride in the fact that he managed to catch the other man by surprise and hopefully, hopefully impressed him just a little bit.
Oh God, he really was fucked.
“That’s cool. Can I be in a video?” He asked casually. Kenma had not even considered the prospect of collabs before. As much as he believes he should distance himself from this guy, his idea was not entirely bad. If anything, he could use the other man’s looks to attract a wider audience. He continued to make a list of superficial ways the man would help for his publicity, desperately trying to hide the fact that he just really wanted to see him again. So instead, he did what he does best: ignore the question.
“I don’t even know your name, stranger,” Kenma snorted in response.
The man laughed. “Well, stranger,” he crooned the word, sending a shiver down Kenma’s spine, “the name’s Atsumu. Or ‘Tsumu. You can call me Mr. Deliveryman too if you like.”
“Hilarious, Mr. Deliveryman,” Kenma sneered, secretly happy to find out his name at last.
“Me? Hilarious? I couldn’t,” Atsumu said in feigned humbleness.
“After all,” he continued, his lips quirking into a small smirk, “You’re the one sitting here, in front of a stranger” (again, the word made a comeback) “in your underwear. You’re the true comedian.”
Kenma immediately turned a deep shade of red. Fuck, he screamed in his mind, he forgot.
He made a horrible attempt at covering his exposed thighs, shifting from his initial cross-legged pose to the formal Japanese sitting position, his legs tucked underneath him. He pulled his hoodie down as far as it could to cover his knees.
“This better?” He tried to snap back but was far too embarrassed to give it the bite it needed to make it sting.
Atsumu let out a loud, uninhibited laugh.
“You’re so cute, fuck,” he gasped in between bouts of laughter, fingers brushing at the non-existent tears in his eyes.
Kenma paused and looked up at the man with wide eyes. Did he say, he recounted slowly, that I was cute? If it was possible for Kenma to burn any brighter, he did.
Almost immediately, Atsumu realised his mistake too and his laughter suddenly ceased. Now it was his turn to look embarrassed.
“I didn’t-” He stumbled over his words, “I mean-”
This time, it was Kenma that interrupted him.
“Atsumu,” he taunted, “you think I’m cute?”
Truthfully, Kenma had no idea where this newfound confidence came from. He just knew it was his opportunity to slowly unravel the other man’s pride and flew at the chance. He always loved to put people in their place.
Atsumu sputtered, shocked by Kenma’s boldness. It took him a moment to recover and suddenly a slow, wicked smile made its way onto his face.
“Ya think I’m cute too, don’t you?” He teased.
A loud “no!” escaped Kenma’s mouth before he could stop it, followed by a low strangled noise he made in sullen defeat.
The other man laughed again. Kenma couldn’t help but think it sounded really fucking sexy.
---
The next day Kenma ordered food again, and secretly wished Atsumu would show up.
After leaving in a hurry the last time (the storm had begun to recede so orders began picking up again. “Always on the clock,” the man had sighed dramatically, as he threw Kenma one last wave before disappearing out his front door), he forgot to leave any contact information. The only thing Atsumu knew about Kenma was his address and he highly doubted the other man would show up at his doorstep unwarranted, simply because he wanted to see him again.
But oh God, did Kenma want that to happen.
He couldn’t explain what exactly compelled him to the man. Sure, he was probably one of the, if not the hottest man he’s ever seen in his life, but Kenma knew he didn’t normally get attached through physical attraction alone.
Was it his sincerity? There was something about how straightforward he was that appealed to Kenma, who’s mind only ever worked to dissect people’s words and intentions. Being around someone so open and uncomplicated was refreshing. He never had to doubt the other man’s intentions, since he always openly announced it. His shamelessness and effortless confidence were something Kenma admired too. It was probably unhealthy that he knew so much about the man after only meeting him once. He just knew he enjoyed his company, and he didn’t want anything more. Well, he didn’t think he wanted anything more.
The ‘ding’ of the doorbell startled him out of his thoughts.
As he swung the door open, he was met with a familiar face.
“Oi Kenma! Did you order this just so you could see me again?” Atsumu said as a greeting, dangling the takeout bag in front of Kenma’s face smugly.
Kenma snatched the bag out of the other man’s hands. “I did not,” He huffed as he turned on his heels to re-enter his apartment, desperate to hide the blush on his cheeks he was sure would betray the lie in his statement. He made sure to leave the door open, a subtle invitation for Atsumu to come in.
And Atsumu wasn’t dumb. He not only noticed, but marvelled at the way Kenma would leave strategically-placed hints for Atsumu to follow up on, never making the first move but always insinuating his desire for more. The thrill of the game made Atsumu’s heart race. He smiled at the face of the challenge and accepted Kenma’s invitation, stepping into his threshold where he was waiting to be baited by the pretty, blonde man with the golden eyes.
---
“Now come on, won’t you let me have one onigiri? Just one? After I’ve been coming all the way to the middle of the motherfucken’ Bermuda Triangle to deliver it for you for the past week?” Atsumu pestered with a shit-eating grin and knowing eyes, already aware that Kenma would give in to his relentless demands.
It was Kenma’s eighth day in a row eating onigiri for dinner. This also meant it was the eighth day in a row Atsumu came and hung out with him at his apartment.
This made Kenma happier than he’d like to admit. He really did enjoy the other man’s company, albeit it was a little louder than Kenma was used to. He welcomed the foreignness anyway.
The only bad thing to come from these meetings were Kenma’s delayed assignments. After sharing his concern about being unable to finish them before the deadline, Atsumu sat Kenma down at his desk and instructed him to do his work. Kenma, whose main problem revolved around his lazy habits and procrastination rather than the inability to understand the material, found the firmness of Atsumu’s words helpful.
It gave him an odd sense of comfort, knowing someone was there in case he had a moment of weakness and began to slack off; knowing that someone was there, that someone cared enough, to keep him on track and be his anchor. It gave him the motivation to complete his work, not for himself (he had long decided he was definitely not a self-driven person), but for the chance to get a glimpse of pride in Atsumu’s eyes when Kenma tells him he’s done.
He managed to finish all his assignments in the next two days (with the help of lots of onigiri and coffee and well, Atsumu), barely making the deadline. When he told Atsumu, the other man ruffled his hair and said “Knew ya could do it, Kenma,” with a grin. It made all of Kenma’s hours of suffering worth it.
“I’ve been wondering actually,” Kenma said, passing an onigiri to Atsumu to which he grinned and bit into gratefully, “Why is it that you’re the only one who ever comes to deliver here? What happened to the other guy that used to come?” He asked, remembering the middle-aged man who used to deliver all his meals, complaining about the location of his apartment every single time.
The other man shrugged. “I think he got a new job or something,” he said, rice falling out of his mouth. Kenma wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“Besides, no one else wants to deliver here. It’s too far, ya know?” He continued, brushing away the stray grains of rice on his face. Kenma secretly longed to do it for him.
“So why do you bother coming all the way here then?” Kenma asked slyly, his eyes moving slowly to look at the man in front of him, offering a lazy smile that sent heat pooling in Atsumu’s stomach.
The other man grinned, eager that Kenma was finally, finally leading him on.
“I get a kick out of seeing yer eyes light up every time ya open the door for me,” he responded, shooting Kenma the same lazy smile.
“They do not.”
“They do.”
“Do not.”
“They do.”
Kenma huffed and to Atsumu’s great, shocking, wonderful surprise, he pouted.
Atsumu choked on his onigiri.
“Ya can’t just-” he tried to say in between hacking coughs, “Ya can’t just do that.”
The other man batted his eyelashes obnoxiously. “Do what?” He asked, feigning ignorance.
“You,” Atsumu jabbed a finger at him (pronouncing the word properly for once), eyes vengeful, “I hate you.”
“Sure you do,” Kenma smiled (was he mocking him? Was Kenma mocking him? Atsumu wondered just how much the tables had turned since they first met) and returned to concentrating on decimating his onigiri.
“Aren’t ya tired of eating onigiri all the time?” Atsumu groaned (secretly trying to change the topic of conversation as quickly as possible. Today, he learned that Kozume Kenma was in fact a wicked, wicked man).
Kenma shrugged. “I don’t really mind it. I also don’t have much of a choice.”
“Ya can’t cook?”
Kenma shook his head warily, feeling slightly suspicious at the mischief that seems to be stirring the other man’s features.
“I’ll teach ya!” Atsumu exclaimed, clapping his hands in delight, “I can cook really well, ya know? I always help my brother out at Onigiri Miyas.”
Kenma did a doubletake, his eyes darting between the half-eaten onigiri in his hand and the grinning man in front of him.
“You mean you,” he said incredulously, “made these?”
“They’re good, aren’t they?” He replied smugly.
In all honesty, if he found out Atsumu made the onigiris especially for him, he would eat all of them even if they tasted like mould and sawdust.
“I mean,” Kenma conceded, “it doesn’t taste horrible.”
That was enough to satisfy Atsumu.
“So whaddya think? Want me to teach ya some tricks in the kitchen?” He asked excitedly, forearms against the table as he leaned closer to Kenma.
Flustered by the closeness, Kenma had no choice but to agree. I mean, he groaned in defeat, who could possibly say no to him? In those moments he leaned forward, his eager brown eyes searched Kenma’s, milking his expression for any sign of hesitance. There was no way he could disappoint him. So he sighed and said “yes, sure, Atsumu. Teach me your infinite knowledge” and the other man smiled and Kenma almost didn’t regret his decision.
Almost.
---
The next day, Atsumu showed up at his door with bags of groceries and an excited grin.
Kenma leaned against his doorframe, stifling a yawn, eyes darting to the phone in his hand to check the time.
His face twisted in distaste. “Atsumu. It’s 9am. On a Sunday.”
“There’s no time like the present!”
“I hate you,” Kenma muttered as he turned back to head into his kitchen to make himself a very large, very much-needed cup of coffee.
Atsumu followed closely behind him.
“So,” he said, stirring his coffee, “What are we making?”
“Just some simple stir-fry,” Atsumu replied, setting out the ingredients he bought on the kitchen table.
“It should be easy enough,” he continued, “even for you.” He threw Kenma a reckless grin, his teeth flashing.
Kenma let out an annoyed “hmph” at the implication of Atsumu’s sentence, too tired to respond.
“Also!” Atsumu’s eyes twinkled, “I was thinking of filming it. Live.”
It took Kenma a moment to register the words. To Atsumu’s never-ending surprise (because Kenma was anything but predictable, and was full of weird quirks and idiosyncrasies he was excited to unravel and worship), instead of outright refusal, he just asked “why?”, looking genuinely confused. Atsumu had to resist the urge to kiss the furrows of his brows.
“It’ll be fun! And I’m sure your viewers would love it. Just imagine it: ‘Kodzuken’s first attempt at cooking, live!’ It would attract an audience, wouldn’t it?” He grinned, proud of himself for making a sound argument.
Kenma seemed to recognise it too, nodding slowly.
Everything Kenma did this morning was slow, languid and lazy, which Atsumu found unfairly sensual. It didn’t help that he was wearing a large oversized white shirt that fell to mid-thigh, only a sliver of black an indication that he was wearing shorts underneath, his long creamy legs on display for Atsumu to try his best not to drool over. And his hair. Oh God, Atsumu loved his hair. It was up in a messy bun, some strands falling and framing his face, others tucked behind his ear. He wanted to run his fingers through it so badly.
It drove Atsumu insane seeing Kenma like this; relaxed and peaceful and so seemingly content. It made him imagine rainy mornings waking up next to Kenma, unhurried kisses in bed and relaxed smiles over fluffy pillows. If ‘Samu could hear me now, he thought to himself, he’d call me a fucken’ sap.
“So,” Atsumu cleared his throat, trying to empty his thoughts (because his cheeks had started turning pink and he was absolutely not going to explain to Kenma what was leaving him so flustered), “Ya can just set up yer phone near the sink. It should be able to view the whole kitchen from there.”
Kenma nodded. He got up and padded over to the sink, where he attempted to balance his phone on the windowsill behind it, failing multiple times and sighing in exasperation. I really can’t do this right now, he thought to himself as he struggled to keep his phone upright.
Atsumu, in a stroke of absurd confidence that Kenma’s passive state this morning probably invoked, strode over to Kenma and leaned over his shoulder to pluck the phone from his grasp, his breath hot on Kenma’s ear, and began trying to balance it on the windowsill, all while Kenma stood encircled in his arms.
Kenma was about ten seconds away from a complete meltdown.
He felt the heat of Atsumu’s body everywhere.
He felt it leaning against his back, a solid figure towering behind him and it felt strangely comforting and solid and secure. He felt the phantom heat trailing down his sides, his waist, where Atsumu’s arms bumped and burned every time he fumbled to rearrange the phone. His neck was flaming, goose bumps forming where Atsumu exhaled, forming a trail Kenma couldn’t help but wish the man would trace his lips on instead.
Kenma let out a shaky exhale, butterflies erupting wherever his skin touched Atsumu’s, colour blooming behind his eyelids as he choked on an inhale, so choke-full of feelings for this stupid man with his stupid perfect smile and his stupid pretty body and his stupid endearing laugh and his stupid, stupid kindness. And Kenma is so confused, and that makes him angry and Atsumu makes him angry because he didn’t like how everything he said seemed to make his heart fucking convulse and somersault out of his chest and he couldn’t think about anything but his stupid red lips as he grabbed him by the collar and yanked hard, lips crashing together as Kenma claimed retribution.
The succession of events that followed happened very quickly.
First, there was shock. Pure, unadulterated shock written all over Atsumu’s face which made Kenma start to shake and back away and ask “did you not want me to? I just thought… I just thought maybe you-” his voice cracked, “liked me too” (the last part much quieter and quivering) and there was pain on Kenma’s face, unmistakable and clear. It was like he had immediately wilted.
“I do,” Atsumu had murmured, hands cupping his face, his eyes searching Kenma’s golden ones, urging him to believe he was telling the truth. “Fuck, I do,” he groaned as he closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against Kenma’s.
“Really?”
Kenma’s voice was soft and raw and sounded so openly vulnerable that it physically broke Atsumu’s heart to think that the man had believed, even if just for a second, that his feelings weren’t reciprocated. Atsumu wanted to erase all the self-doubt he knew the other man had gnawing at him every day. He wanted to take it by the fucking neck and throw it far, far away where it could never bother him again.
Atsumu couldn’t hope to ever fully understand the internal turmoil Kenma faces, just as the other man would never understand his. He could only do his best to be understanding and bridge the gap between them, filling with his body what his words couldn’t.
And that was why, instead of muttering promises and speaking his empathy into existence, he just pressed his lips against Kenma’s as a silent offering of understanding, of I’m here, of never second-guess my feelings again, and most of all, of I do like you, I like you a lot, Kozume Kenma.
---
The two of them postponed their cooking live to the next day after being rather distracted the day before. (It turns out their physical attraction was no joke. They really could go on for hours, lazily worshipping each other’s bodies.)
Atsumu was in an especially good mood; he hummed as he sorted the ingredients they needed for the dish and even spun Kenma around once or twice if he was at an especially dramatic part of the song.
Kenma was happier too, in a more subdued, calmer manner. He laughed at how ridiculous Atsumu looked dancing around his kitchen, he brushed his lips against Atsumu’s knuckles when he accidentally flung it against an overhead cabinet in a particularly dramatic rendition of Satisfied, and he even slipped some tongue in their what-was-meant-to-be innocent, brief morning kiss (that quickly turned into a heavy make-out session. Now that was Kenma’s idea of a good morning work-out, pleased at how flustered and surprised it made Atsumu).
While Kenma was cooking (as much as one could cook while standing almost two feet away from the stove, scared of being scalded by the sizzling oil), Atsumu was standing in front of his phone, reading comments from their ongoing live out loud. Kenma thought that Atsumu was much better suited to the ‘influencer’ life than he was.
“We’re using paprika, not chilli powder,” Atsumu was saying to the phone screen, presumably answering a question a viewer had.
“No, no, we don’t live together,” Atsumu laughed, scrolling through more comments.
This piqued Kenma’s interest. People were asking questions about the two of them?
He padded over to where Atsumu was standing, tiptoe-d and leaned over his shoulder to view the screen. His small hands managed to snake its way under Atsumu’s shirt and wrap around his bare waist, making the taller man shiver and grin (trying his best to resist the urge to kiss Kenma).
“‘Who’s the man with Kodzuken?’” Kenma read the question aloud, laughing quietly into Atsumu’s neck and leaving an open-mouthed kiss under his jaw.
“I don’t know,” Kenma teased, looking up at the taller man and poking his cheek with a finger, “who are you?”
“I,” Atsumu announced with a big foolish smirk, bright loving eyes darting from Kenma’s softened gaze to the camera, “am Kenma’s boyfriend.”